Like a Sister(17)

I shook my head. Instagram stalking aside, I didn’t.

Now that I knew she was okay, I took her in. This Erin. It felt weird to see her by herself when I’d only ever seen her in photos next to my sister. Standing in what used to be my place. And here she was, too hung over—or still intoxicated—to even remember last night.

Quite the friend.

Erin must have noticed my judgment because she spoke again, her voice affecting a whine like a posh French accent. “You can’t be mad at me for leaving you last night. That guy was cute! And quick. I was back in, like, ten minutes, but you were gone. I knocked on the bedroom door when I got back. When you didn’t answer, I figured you were asleep. Don’t be mad, Desiree.”

I stared back, realizing she hadn’t forgotten what had happened. She really didn’t know. I felt like an asshole. Again.

Green and Zizza went from looking at me to looking at each other, no doubt playing a mental round of Rock, Paper, Scissors to see who’d have to break the news.

Just like that, I wanted to leave the room I’d been so desperate to get into just a few minutes before, not wanting to be present when Erin learned the news. I did an about-face and quietly shut the door behind me. I leaned on the wall across from the suite, slowly making my way down to sit. I couldn’t hear a word, but I knew the deed had been done when Erin wailed so loudly the housekeeper two doors down checked to make sure everything was okay. “Should I call the police?”

“They’re already inside.”

She nodded like the police being somewhere before you needed them was an everyday thing, then went back to work. I closed my eyes and just listened. Inside suite 1407, Erin was still screaming. I compared our reactions. I hadn’t yelled. I hadn’t cried. I hadn’t so much as frowned. Instead, I’d just paid for my Snapple, got on my bike, and headed to the playground, my Super Black Woman cape flapping behind me.

I needed a ride to clear my head. But my bike was miles away, and I was stuck here in this hallway, breathing stale air. If I couldn’t do that, I could at least meditate. I’d read an article once on “mindfulness” while cycling. It’d taken me a while, but I’d gotten good at it, often craved it like a pint of Graeter’s chocolate ice cream. The only problem was, I could never remember the chants they’d recommended. So I’d started using Biggie lyrics.

It’s all good, baby, baby.

Now I repeated the words over and over until I convinced myself it was better to be proactive than depressed. The Super Black Woman in me needed to feel like she was doing something. I went over what I wanted to ask Erin about Alfie, about Desiree’s drug use, and about why she had been in the Bronx. Once I felt prepared, I fired off another text to Zarah, waited all of 0.2 seconds, then did something I hadn’t done for two years: called Desiree’s phone.

That was how I spent the next hour, cross-legged on the floor, relentlessly calling in the hopes someone would answer. I’d give it four rings, hang up, and start again. If someone did have her cell, I wanted to annoy them so much they’d pick up just to demand I stop fucking calling.

But no one ever answered. After the kajillionth attempt, it was me who gave up. I finally let it go to voice mail as I stared at my Jordans and discovered Desiree had actually recorded an outgoing message. Hearing her voice was jarring.

It came with its own musical score, an Usher song from 8701. The album was a classic, and I recognized the beat immediately. We’d both always loved Usher. Desiree had let the instrumental play for a good thirty seconds before she finally spoke. “You don’t have to call. It’s okay, girl. You can just send a text. I’m not checking this anyway.”

I laughed. Sarcasm was as much a part of our genetics as freckles. Hanging up, I tried on the “Think positive” approach like it was a pair of yellow-toe Jordans. The phone hadn’t gone straight to voice mail. That meant it was still on wherever it was—even if whoever it was with wasn’t picking up. Maybe Zarah or someone had Desiree on Find My Friends.

I still hadn’t heard back from Zarah. I was about to call her when my phone rang. Aunt E.

Shitnuts. I hit the ANSWER button. “I’m sorry,” I said instead of hello. “I should’ve called as soon as I left the meeting.”

“No need to apologize. I spoke with Mel. I just wanted to see what time you’d be home so I could have dinner ready. I have everything I need for chicken ’n’ dumplings.”

Desiree’s favorite. I smiled. “Mel wanted me to pack up Desiree’s hotel suite.” I didn’t want to get into my growing concerns. At least not yet. “I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours.”

“I’ll have dinner waiting.”

I hadn’t eaten all day and still wasn’t the least bit hungry. Maybe I’d have an appetite by the time I got home. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” She paused. “And Lena? Stay safe.”

“I will.” I meant it too.

I hung up and immediately went to text Zarah again. She was the type who either texted back within seconds or never at all.

You good?

The three dots appeared instantly, followed by two words.

No. You?

It took me longer to respond than it should have as I weighed telling the truth. I landed on not answering the question. Instead, I wrote: Was worried when you didn’t hit me back.